


Black Leather and Smoke Signals

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Bars and Pubs, Biting, Bruises, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Drinking & Talking, F/M, First Meetings, Flirting, Hair-pulling, Hand & Finger Kink, Leather Jackets, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Sex Positions, Nash Has a Big Dick, Overstimulation, Past Drug Use, Pet Names, Riding, Scratching, Smoking, Spit As Lube, Strangers to Lovers, Tattoos, Teasing, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Window Sex, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:22:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27745180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: His voice is like a bullet to your head, breaking you out of your thoughts and punching the breath out of your lungs in one fell swoop. Your stomach is in knots and every inch of your skin shivers, nerves jumping like water on a bass speaker. A few inches away from you sits the man who threw every scrap of your dignity to the wolves in five seconds flat. He's tall and muscular, has blond hair that sweeps over his forehead and hangs between his eyes, which are light but smoldering like the salacious eyes of a Peeping Tom. He's all sharp angles and sun-kissed skin, dressed to the nines, and exuding an air of confidence so atramentous it could trounce the ink climbing up the smooth column of his throat in a battle of caliginosity.He's a consummate master in the art of seduction—that much is evident.Or, Nash enters your life one rainy afternoon and decides to stick around for a while.
Relationships: Nash Gold Jr./Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 60





	Black Leather and Smoke Signals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kyra_Gold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyra_Gold/gifts).



It starts on one particularly rainy afternoon—which is to be expected when you're living near one of Europe's rainiest capitals—but everything else about this day bleeds like an exception.

Being a bartender comes with its fair share of idiosyncratic meetings and unorthodox encounters that run the gamut from uncomfortable to pleasant; and while not every person you meet falls into one of these categories, they're the more memorable of the bunch. And one person just so happens to throw light upon notability like the goddamn sun itself.

Enter a blond-haired, green-eyed dreamboat of a gorgeous man that steps foot into the very pub you work at with rain clinging to the tips of his golden strands and a smirk on his lips that lances through your heart and weakens your knees.

He sidles up to the bar with arrogance tracking his every movement and sin written across the stars in his eyes. He looks like the embodiment of every raw fantasy you'd ever had, smoke and leather and dominance stripped down to the ragged edges of sexual sovereignty. One look at this man makes your mouth water like a desert vagrant who's thirsty for rain, makes your heart hammer in your chest, and your blood blister in your veins.

You know immediately, that if getting close to this man means standing too close to fire, you're more than willing to risk getting burned just for one kiss.

It takes you a moment to realize that you're staring at him, lips parted for breath you can't seem to catch and eyes glazed with heat. You shake your head as if you can physically drive your thoughts into the gossamer corners of your mind, and you can't decide if you're distraught over how dead the pub is at this hour or grateful. One man is sitting at a corner table, a paper stretched out across the cheap laminate in front of him, his cup of coffee sans steam and barely touched. He frequents the establishment, especially on rainy days, and you've never seen him leave in under an hour. Fortunately, however, he's not the talkative type.

“What's a cutie like you doing working all alone?”

His voice is like a bullet to your head, breaking you out of your thoughts and punching the breath out of your lungs in one fell swoop. Your stomach is in knots and every inch of your skin shivers, nerves jumping like water on a bass speaker. A few inches away from you sits the man who threw every scrap of your dignity to the wolves in five seconds flat. He's tall and muscular, has blond hair that sweeps over his forehead and hangs between his eyes, which are light but smoldering like the salacious eyes of a Peeping Tom. He's all sharp angles and sun-kissed skin, dressed to the nines, and exuding an air of confidence so atramentous it could trounce the ink climbing up the smooth column of his throat in a battle of caliginosity.

He's a consummate master in the art of seduction—that much is evident.

The man is still staring at you, which makes you realize that you haven't responded because a quiet grunt-like sound in the deep of your throat most definitely doesn't qualify as a conversation. Quickly, you swallow what little moisture you have left on your tongue and wet your lips. “Today is a slow day.” You gesture to the man reading in the corner of the pub. “We don't pick up until around close, and that's on a good day.”

The man shamelessly trails his gaze over your body, dragging heat down the entire length of your spine. You shudder but try not to let it show as he sweeps his tongue out across his lips in a way that has pleasure pooling in the space between your legs.

“So, you'll be working here for a while, I take it...” he trails off, staring you down like he's daring you to slip out from beneath his gaze.

“I don't plan to make a career out of it,” you tell him, blankly. “I'm just working here until I happen upon something better.”

The man smiles and huffs a breath of laughter. “No, sweetheart. I meant, fuck it, it doesn't matter. I'll take a whiskey neat.”

“Right,” you say, nearly tripping over your feet as you disappear further behind the counter to prepare his drink. You can feel how flushed your face is, and it's a miracle that you don't spill any of the alcohol considering how badly your fingers are shaking. “Do you have any kind of ID on you?” you ask him, drink just out of his reach.

The man chuckles, the sound low and vibrant in his chest. “Sure do, babydoll.” He reaches into his suit jacket and withdraws a leather money clip. He slides what looks to be an American license free from a variety of other cards and holds the card between his middle and pointer fingers as he extends his hand. You reach for the card but he closes the long digits of his free hand around your wrist, his thumb sliding over the thrum of your pulse. “If you want my name, you could have asked.”

Your cheeks flare with heat and you're pretty sure that your pupils are blown as wide as the surprise dilating your eyes. You clear your throat and take the polycarbonate card from his fingers. “It's bartending protocol. I have to ask.” You tear your gaze away from his features and try to be as inconspicuous as possible as you scan over his personal information. You swallow thickly before returning his license and slide his drink across the polished bar top.

“You're...I know your name,” you state, and the man, _Nash Gold Jr._ , laughs.

“Is that so?” He slides his license back into the leather device in front of him and tucks it away. “This wouldn't be the first time my reputation has preceded me. The question is,” –Nash leans forward, his elbows sliding along the laminated golden brown oak–“which one?”

“I don't follow,” you tell him, furrowing your brow.

He smiles. “Do you know me for my brief but successful streak as captain of the internationally famous streetball team, Jabberwock? Or my current position as a well-known arms dealer and gunsmith?”

You glance around the pub, knowing that no one has entered since this man's arrival but feeling paranoid all the same. “Should you really be saying something like that as though it's nothing more than casual conversation?”

He looks at you directly, his eyes boring into your own. “I have a defense contracting empire with over a billion dollars in revenue. I work hand-in-glove with multinational conglomerates and international establishments from China to Argentina. I don't think a pretty little thing like you could cause me much strife.” He lifts his drink and slowly takes a sip, his eyes never leaving your own. He makes a show of licking a drop of whiskey off his lips. “I wouldn't put up much of a fight if you wanted to give it a shot, though.” He sets his drink on the bar. “What's your name, darlin'?”

“____,” you murmur while trying to ignore how sweaty your palms have gotten over the past two minutes.

“That's a pretty name for a gorgeous piece such as yourself.” He reaches out and presses his thumb against the bottom line of your mouth. “And tell me, ____, how old are you?” He traces your lip and the tension building between you is so thick that you're not sure the sharpest blade in the world could slice through it.

“Twenty-five,” is your reply, tremulous and quiet.

The pad of Nash's thumb catches against the bottom row of your teeth before he pulls his hand away from your mouth. He takes another drink from his glass and a wet sound leaves his mouth when he finishes it. “Not the best whiskey I've ever had, but Krucefix is a pretty badass name for a distillery.” He slides his glass toward you, a sinful smirk on his lips.

“You never answered my question, but judging by your response, you know me for my more wholesome nature.” He chuckles and slides a hand through his hair. “It's hard to believe that I used to be a decent person.”

“Used to be?” You arch an eyebrow and gesture to his glass. “Do you want another?”

“I'll drink another if you take a sip of it first.”

You lean against the countertop for a semblance of balance because you're desperate for some kind of tether, some kind of anchor to keep you grounded. “I can't drink on the job.”

“Au contraire, kitten. You can do anything if you want it bad enough. It all comes down to personal choice. That's the magic behind the power of selection. To make a distinction between right and wrong, that's no different from making a business transaction. Temptation, power, control, domination, it's all the name of a game, whether between the sheets or in life.” Nash interlaces his fingers and leans forward on his barstool. “Have you ever experienced true, _raw_ passion? The kind of passion that you feel in your bones, that makes you want to tear apart someone with your teeth—the kind of passion that makes you want to eat someone alive, that makes you feel like an animal—the kind of passion that's so strong between two people that they _let_ you.”

You feel like the bones in your body have turned to dust and all of the blood in your veins has evaporated, dissolved in the overheated and stagnant air of the pub. You pour Nash another drink for something to occupy your trembling hands, something to quell the desperate need scratching at the surface of your skin. You steal a glimpse at the man seated in the corner, the man who always stays quiet and minds his own business, the man you've never wanted to leave the pub so badly before. You raise the glass to your mouth, the rim cold against your lips, and tip your head back just enough to taste woodsy tobacco and leather and vanilla on your tongue before the burn hits the back of your throat.

Nash hums a noise that sounds like a cross between satisfaction and approval. “You have a bad habit of avoiding questions.” He takes the drink between his hands and a wolfish grin spreads over his impossibly smooth lips. “Let's see if you answer this one.”

You feel like you've just run through the fields of sin and taken a drink from the devil's cup. Nash is electric and you can feel his spark, burning so hot that it's turning to a fever beneath your skin. And then he airily asks, “Are you a virgin, darlin'?” in the same vein one inquires about the weather.

You feel like your heart has stopped beating, like your speechlessness is a symptom in the state of your decay. You don't know why this man is capable of having such an effect on you. It was one thing to come apart when he walked through the pub's entrance, physical attraction can do that to a person—but this is on an entirely different level. This is menticide through the use of flowery speech, honeyed cajolery, and unrighteously good looks.

Nash is a walking, talking drug and you're breathing him in, getting high on his wiles and charms. Furthermore, like the dirty streets splattered with rain just outside the smoke-stained windows of the pub, Nash has no shame. He's the type of person who revels in filth and exposure, the type of man who rides on the coattails of scandal and dirty laundry and the sacrificial rites of the vulnerable simply because he _can_. And while this all seems judgmental considering that you met the indisputable playboy less than an hour ago, you'd be willing to bet your bottom dollar that you're in spitting distance of the truth.

Still, despite what you're sure you already know, you give in to your baser instincts and choose the shortest distance between two points. “No,” you answer him as steadily as you can, though you feel like you're fighting fire with fire.

Nash flashes you a predatory smile that disappears behind his glass and the prints your lips left on its rim. He downs the amber-colored liquid before pushing himself into standing. He sets the glass down harder than strictly necessary as if to punctuate some unspoken point, then leans over the bar to speak close enough to your ear that you can feel his breath stir the fine hairs at your temple. “There are sharks in the water, baby. Once you cross the border, there's no going back.”

Nash steps away from the bar and the stools that stand like antiquated conscripts and time-worn furnishings in desperate need of wax polish and Bondo. He reaches into his breast pocket, and where you expect him to procure a business card in some cheap form of perpetual tempting and solicitation, he, instead, drops three times what his tab is worth into the empty glass atop the bar.

“Keep the change, babydoll.” He rakes his gaze over your frame one last time, eyes burning like jewels glinting in the flaxen glow of the moon. “I'll be in town for a few days. I'll stop by tomorrow. Your brand of whiskey is shit but you're worth the aftertaste. Who knows, maybe one of these days, I'll stick around for dessert.”

“We don't have dessert,” you say, so far away that your voice sounds distant to your ears. “We have peanuts, though.”

Nash smiles and looks pointedly at the junction of your thighs before turning around. He throws his hand up in a brief wave and the sound of rain, falling in a deluge, has come and gone before you see the implication for what it was.

* * *

You're half-surprised, half-prepared when Nash returns. The first part of your shift has passed slowly, with the same mundane persistence as usual. Of the familiar patrons scattered throughout the pub, few are in their wonted spirits. The sky is overcast and gray, with a distinct threat of rain. Yet, whilst everything screams familiarity and habitual indolence, your heart is thundering in your chest, opening up like the foreshadowing of a storm brewing along the skyline.

Nash is dressed more casually today, if one can associate such a term with a man who looks as good as he does in black denim and leather. He flashes you a bright smile as he makes his way over to the bar, shrugging out of his jacket and down to a plain white tee that looks more expensive in its plainness than your entire wardrobe.

“What's up, gorgeous?” he asks, his voice as smooth as Irish Cream and as sweet as syrup.

He looks like the devil dressed in white. He's an angel with scabbed wings, a sweet-talkin', serpent-tongued, son-of-a-gun.

“I thought it was _cutie_ ,” you needle, slinging a dish towel over your shoulder.

Nash slides onto a barstool and laughs, blond hair falling into his eyes. His smile is wide and bright and it spreads to warmth in the low of your belly. “You didn't strike me as the kind of girl who'd jump straight into the sack without preamble. I figured I'd ease into it, you know?”

You furrow your brow and try to ignore the fluttering sensation of butterfly wings beating against your rib cage. It's not a simple task when you feel like your chest is seconds from cracking open, but you manage, somehow. “You do realize that you're contradicting yourself, right? Like, literally everything you just said makes zero sense.”

Nash peers up at you beneath the long lines of his lashes. “Where there's logic, sense is no longer needed.” He drums his hands on the bar top and makes several of the older patrons jolt with unsought awareness. “So, what's on the menu today, darlin'?”

You lean across the bar, elbows braced against the cool wood for balance. “Where are you from, _darlin_ '?”

The curve of Nash's mouth tilts on a crooked grin. “Don't act like you didn't soak up all of my personal information when you had the chance.”

“I'm a guilty sponge.” You lift your shoulders in the barest hint of a shrug. “I'm just not used to people talking the way that you do.”

“That's because you're stuck in this perpetually dreary darkness and you've never come to my neck of the woods. I'm the Mephistopheles of Los Angeles, baby. I'm from the Golden State, the Land of Milk and Honey. They don't call California paradise for nothing.”

“I don't buy it. You're overselling it too much. Do you want a drink, Golden Boy? Or did you just come here to heckle me some more?”

“Surprise me. Just make it better than the rat piss you gave me yesterday.”

“So pretentious,” you scoff, moving to the other side of the counter. “You know, they call us The Sunny Side of The Alps.”

Nash emits a low whistle. “That's false advertising at its finest.”

“Point proven. Nicknames, slogans, whatever you want to call them, don't equate truth.” You top Nash's drink with tonic water, then garnish with a lime wedge. You slide the highball glass over to him, ice clinking against its clear sides. “Cheers.”

“If this is bad I'm upping my heckling skills.” Nash takes a sip of the drink and smacks his lips together when he sets the glass down. “I'll be damned. You're not a shitty bartender after all.”

You whack Nash with the towel you keep close for minor spills and laugh. “You're an asshole,” you say, voice hushed and low. “I've heard mixed rumors about Americans, most of my friends say they're exceedingly nice to nonnatives, but I'm starting to think that the other half are onto something.”

Something dark flashes across Nash's eyes despite the charming smile that has yet to entirely vanish from his lips. “Nonnatives? I don't think I've heard that one before. We just call people foreigners.” He takes another sip of his drink. “You make a mean gin and tonic. It's not my first drink of choice but damn, babydoll. Let me see what you used.”

“You want to look at a bottle of tonic water? I promise you it's not all that exciting.” You reach behind the bar, eyes flashing over the other people in the building before you retrieve the bottle of gin.

“You're a little spitfire, today. I think I liked you better when you were all _deer-in-the-headlights_.”

You flash Nash the bottle and smile. “Don't judge a book by its cover, Nashhole.”

“I know this is going to shock you, but that's not the first time I've been called that.” He gestures for the bottle with his hands, fingers moving in a come hither motion that hits you in all the right places at entirely the wrong time.

“I should have seen that coming.” You hand him the bottled drink with a warning glance. “You break it, you buy it.”

Nash pretends to fumble the glass before poring over the 'Broken Bones' label. You jump when the wooden legs of a chair scrape against the floor and one of the customers shuffles over to the exit door.

“I have to give it to you guys, your distilleries have pretty cool names.”

“Wait until you hear some of the brewery names.” You take the bottle out of his hands and return it to its place behind the bar. “So, since we've gotten intimately close in these past...one and a half days, so much so that you're calling me a foreigner in _my_ country, I don't feel bad asking, are you an alcoholic or something?”

Nash snickers and you watch his tongue catch on a particularly sharp canine. “No, I'm not an alcoholic. I like to drink and I'm far from a lightweight but I know when to hit the breaks. As for the _something_ , I had a brief stint with cocaine after college but I'm all good now. That shit made me feel like I was jumping into the fifth dimension. I'm surprised that I didn't end up on the roof of a house, planning to go out in a blaze of glory.” He laughs and waves his hand to dispel the look of concern that's delineating your features. “That was a while ago, babydoll. I'm too old for that shit now. I just have an affinity with collecting dumb shit like cool-looking liquor bottles and good-looking women.”

You roll your eyes at the last bit, not entirely sure if he's joking or being serious. “How old _are_ you?”

“Some sponge you are.” Nash finishes off his drink and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “All you need to know is that I'm old enough to be your daddy.”

“You look pretty good for a man my father's age.”

Nash smirks and takes you by the hand before you realize the proximity of where he's sitting to where you're standing. He plucks the lime wedge off the rim of his glass and turns your hand over, palm facing the ceiling. “I'm thirty-seven.” He squeezes the lime over your fingers, his eyes glued to your face. “But something tells me that I could be fifty and your opinion of me wouldn't change a bit.” He brings your hand to his lips and sucks two of your lime-wet fingers into his mouth.

“Oh my god!” You draw your hand away as if you've been burned. “Who just does that? You don't even know where my hand has been!”

Nash laughs loud enough that the patrons glare at his back for a second time. “You might want to rethink that statement, darlin'. Unless you're trying to tell me something.”

You groan and cover your face with your unsticky hand. “You're the worst. I hate you.”

“That's great news for you then because I'll be back tomorrow.” Nash pulls several bills out of his back pocket and you're quick to cover his abandoned glass with your hand. He knits his brows together but he looks amused all the same.

“I had to wait for the money to dry after your trick yesterday. Now I have wrinkly bills in my register.”

“Better wrinkly bills than wrinkly balls.” Nash slaps the money down on the counter and flashes you a winning smile. “I'll see you tomorrow. Maybe the third time will be a charm.”

You're still staring after him, even when his silhouette is nothing but an imprint behind your eyes because you're not sure what he was implying—but if it's anything along the lines of what your deepest desires long for, curiosity isn't a strong enough word to detail what you're feeling.

When your shift ends and you step out into the tepid evening breeze, starry eyes spark up the inky spill of nightfall. Only, they don't have the right amount of pigment to be your own.

* * *

When Nash comes in this time, he's not alone. There's a man at his side, and where looks are concerned, they're night and day but the stranger is no less handsome. They make their way over to the bar, chatting idly, and you can't help but notice that in the ( _very_ ) short time Nash has frequented the pub, he acts like he could make his way around its interior blindfolded.

He takes up his usual barstool with an air of familiarity and when you meet his gaze, there's a glimmer of fondness that wasn't there before.

“Hey, darlin'. Get your fine ass over here. There's someone I want you to meet.”

You arch an eyebrow and try to act natural but for some reason, your heart goes from 0 to 60 like a goddamn Porsche Spyder in two seconds flat. Still, you make your way over to where they're sitting and lean against the bar.

“The name's Nijimura,” the dark-haired male says, extending his hand. “I have the very unfortunate task of working alongside this yankī.”

You reach out and accept his handshake, swallowing thickly when your palms touch. “I'm not exaggerating when I say that I feel truly sorry for you. I'm ____. Although, if _he_ keeps coming in here, people are going to start thinking that my name's darlin'.”

Nijimura laughs and slants his gaze in Nash's direction. “I can see why you like her.”

Your heart skips a beat and for a moment, you expect Nash's features to shift or his complexion flush in some indication of embarrassment—but then you remember that this is _Nash_ , and you're not convinced that he's ever felt a single strain of embarrassment in his life.

“Is that a good or a bad thing?” You flit your gaze between the two of them, one hip thrust against the counter and a hand on the opposite. “Because I'm not confident that anything _good_ comes from conversations with him,” you say, pointedly glancing at Nash.

Nijimura laughs, though it's quieter this time. “You're not wrong. He's a real dumpster fire. The trash that comes out of his mouth benefits no one, and his intentions should not be misconstrued. To tell you the truth, that's why I wanted to come meet you. I never know when he's being honest or when he's trying to yank my chain.”

“About that, I knew I shouldn't have let you off your leash,” Nash needles. “After everything I've done for you... And here you are, slandering my name to the first girl I've wanted to bed in months.”

You nearly choke on your next breath and hastily busy yourself behind the bar for lack of a better thing to do. You make two gin and tonics because you're not entirely convinced you have room for any other drink recipes in the gory mess of thoughts crowding your mind. You hope Nijimura approves of the beverage you've chosen for him, but if not, you have a backup plan: just shove the drink down Nash's throat to keep him from rambling for ten seconds.

You stop to help another customer because it's clear that Nash has all the time in the world. Once they're seated in the corner of the pub, you press two lime wedges over the rims of their glasses, cheeks flushing at the memory of your fingers in Nash's mouth.

“Sex in the Driveway is better than Sex on the Beach and I will fight you on this,” Nash is telling Nijimura when you're within earshot of their conversation.

“You just like that it's blue,” Nijimura argues. “The cranberry juice is essential.”

“You could just put a new spin on them. Tailor them to your personal tastes.” You slide their respective drinks toward them. “Altering drinks is a sort of science but it's easy to do if you know what you're doing.” You look at Nash arrestingly. “I should have known that you like things sweet.”

“Why's that?” Nash almost purrs, not touching his drink.

“The bad boys always do.”

Nijimura takes a sip of his drink and hums around a swallow. “She's got you there.”

“Like you're one to talk,” Nash counters. “Your two best friends when you traveled to America were a baseball bat and your right hand.”

Nijimura kicks him in the shin and points at him threateningly. “Watch it, pretty boy.”

Nash exhales a sharp _tch_ and flashes Nijimura a look of reproach. “You're the _pretty_ one.”

“You look like Leonardo DiCaprio when he was every teenager's wet dream.” He chuckles into his drink. “You're such a generic American heartthrob.”

“I would slap you but shit stains,” Nash deadpans. “And fuck that guy. He grew up to look like a cross between an uncircumcised dick and Black Phillip. Besides, I have way more money than he does. That makes me superior without even trying.”

Nijimura looks at you pleadingly before placing his hand over the top of your own. “Please, whatever you do, don't sleep with this asshole. For the love of your dignity and virtue, do _not_ let him within ten feet of your person outside of this bar.”

You open your mouth to respond but your boss enters from the back and asks to speak to you about a shipment coming in later in the week. It's not a long conversation, albeit a boring one, but by the time you return to your new favorite place behind the bar, Nijimura is gone.

You put on your best expression of disappointment and steal a sip of Nash's beverage. “Where did your friend go? I like him so much better than you.”

The look on Nash's face changes and he huffs a breath of laughter. “He had a meeting to attend. I thought you weren't supposed to drink on the job? And speaking of” –his eyes shift as if he's making sure that your boss has left– “what happened to your _bartending protocol_? I didn't see you asking Nijimura for his ID.”

You flash him a flirtatious grin. “I'm not, but if I have to put up with you, I need something to take the edge off.”

Nash shakes his head and there's such a boyish quality to it that it makes your heart swell with longing and something too close to adoration for comfort. “I see we're just going to overlook your workplace incompetence. That's fine,” he lilts, making a show of raising his hands for emphasis. “I'm sure we can think of more interesting things to talk about.”

“He's not wrong, that Nijimura, you do kind of look like a classic heartthrob. Have you ever considered Glamour Shots by Deb?”

“Did you know that the term glamour photography is a widely-known euphemism for _erotic_ photography?” Nash drums his fingers on his thigh absentmindedly. “Is this your way of trying to get me out of my clothes? Because, I'll be honest, you really don't have to work this hard.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose and groan, but the way laughter shakes apart in your chest, making your shoulders quiver, gives you away. “You really need to leave. I think I'm at the end of my tether.”

“I'm not going anywhere, babydoll.” Nash knocks back his drink and slides off of his barstool. “I'm going to sit my ass down in that booth over there and make myself comfortable because you're coming home with me tonight.”

“What?” you ask, wincing at the high-pitch of your tone. “What gives you that idea?”

Nash walks over to the aforementioned booth near a bricked-in window and sits down. He kicks his feet up on the opposite bench seat and makes a dramatic show of getting comfortable. “Come here for a second,” he says, finally.

You exhale a weighty sigh and close the distance between you until you're within a foot of where he's sitting. “What could you possibly want from me?”

Nash's eyes glint mischievously and you wish you could call the question back because it was clearly the wrong thing to ask. His warm fingers curl around your wrist and he tugs you forward hard enough that it's a miracle you don't fall face-first into his lap. His lips brush the shell of your ear, his breath hot and his tone thick with unbridled want when he speaks. “Do you want me to fuck you, ____?” You feel a shiver pass down the delicate curvature of your spine, a whimper escaping your lips, and your face flushing so hot that cold water transcends from small mercy to necessity. “I could make you feel things that you've never felt before. I could make you feel so good.”

You pull out of his grip but you can feel his touch on your skin long after it's gone. “I have to get work...back to work, I mean.” You walk away from him on trembling legs, your heart weak and trapped in your throat.

You spend the rest of your shift feeling overwhelmed, overheated and hungry in a way you've never been in your life. You can feel Nash's eyes on you, burning and searching, stripping you down to the very core of your soul. It's strange, what it's doing to you—a part of you feels like Nash's visual touch is anchoring you somehow, but the other, more vibrant parts of you feel like you've been punched in the gut by the arousal that's threatening your basic functions. It's a strange dichotomy, one that leaves you feeling as bifurcated as the many emotions stacked between your ribs.

The hands on the clock behind the bar make an audible _click_ as the last hour of your shift arrives. You steal a glance at Nash's table and find that he's still there, his position only slightly different from the last time you checked on him. Looking at him makes your limbs feel heavy, fills your throat with liquid apprehension, and makes your tongue feel unwieldy in your mouth. It's as exciting as it is terrifying because you're confident that, at this moment, it would only take a single word from him and you'd jump off of the proverbial ledge you're standing on.

Nash lifts his head—his extrasensory perception is almost unsettling—and flashes you an arrogant smirk. The light on his phone screen illuminates his face in a way that makes his eyes look wild and animal, and you're grateful when the door opens and a man shuffles in from outside until you see who it is.

All you wanted was a simple distraction, but this man spells trouble, and to label him a problem is a polite understatement. He's only come to the pub two other times, that you're aware of, but both times have been vexing occasions, to say the least. He always smells like he's drowning in alcohol and cheap cologne, and he only comes by in the evening. In all probability, he's a denizen of the local pubs, a carouser who hops from one pub to another when the drinks stop flowing straight into his hands.

He staggers over to the bar and you're tempted to kick him out before he even orders a drink because you know that he's surpassed the legal drinking limit hours ago. It's one of a few things that you don't like about this job. You refuse to enable someone's drinking problem but you'd be lying if you said you didn't fear the consequences of refusing them just the same.

You decide to try an old bar trick before he has a chance to intervene. You pull a bottle of vodka out from behind the bar. It's ninety percent water, ten percent vodka, mixed solely for this purpose. You quickly mix a Bloody Mary, that's closer to a Virgin Mary, hoping that the man doesn't notice before he downs the drink—the tomato juice and its other ingredients should help to replenish the body with vitamins needed to cure a hangover. This man might still be three sheets to the wind but if nothing else, it might help sober him enough to soft-pedal potential violence.

One sip of the beverage is proof enough, however, that some people can't hold their tempers any better than their liquor. The man knocks the drink off of the bar and onto the floor, his face an ugly shade of puce as sweat begins to slick his skin. A thick vein pulses near his temple and you step back from the bar, hands curled into protective fists.

His voice is low and dangerous when he speaks, slurring something that sounds like _ya fuckin' cunt, tryin' to trick me._ He nearly collapses when he tries to stand, but Nash catches him by the arm to hold him steady. Your heart skips a beat and fear settles like a stone in the low of your belly because you don't need to be a clairvoyant or Sherlock Holmes to see where this is going.

Much to your relief, Nash at least has the foresight to drag the man outside before starting a fight. You watch the event go down through the pub's bay window, and no sooner than you reach for the First Aid Kit behind the bar, you realize that calling it a fight would put shame to Nash's strength because the man doesn't get his arm higher than his waist before Nash lays him out with a single punch.

You forgo the medical supplies and manage to close your mouth before Nash makes his way back inside. There's blood on his knuckles that clashes—or perhaps, more alarmingly, complements—the grin on his face. “I'm gonna wash up before I take you home.” Nash glances at the clock on the wall. “I'll meet you out back in ten. I'm gonna grab a smoke.”

“You _smoke_?” is all you can manage before he disappears.

You groan and put your head in your hands, half-hoping that your colleague has come down with the flu. Yet, nothing seems to be in your favor tonight because he shows up right on time. At least he came in through the back and you don't have to answer any questions about the man out cold in front of the building. _Small mercies_ , you tell yourself.

You gather up your belongings and head out the back, inhaling a deep breath as you push through the exit door. It does little to calm you, and if anything, it makes your lungs burn and tickle with the desire to cough. Although, the smoke curling through the air like a vapor trail might be to blame.

“You ready?” Nash asks, flicking what's left of his cigarette into a water puddle.

“To be honest, not at all. I have no idea what I'm doing. The thought of going home with you is sending me into a panic attack and I don't even _have_ panic attacks.”

You turn to face Nash, breath hitching when you realize how close he is. Your faces are inches apart, at best, and when Nash wets his lips, his tongue grazes the bottom line of your mouth. “I think you're just keyed up,” he tells you with an anticipatory smile and a flash of white teeth. Then he takes your shirt in his hands and tugs you into a deep, open-mouthed kiss. You part your lips for breath and Nash steals the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. A moan vibrates in your throat and you have to grip Nash's hips to keep yourself from falling. You kiss until your lips are tingling, all tongue and teeth and saliva, and when Nash draws away you know that the last dregs of deliberation have been washed away with the rain.

You're fully convinced that Nash knows this, that he's known this from the start, and it's not just a part of his facade. Yet, as if he's still trying to entice you, he moves his lips along your jaw, down to your neck, sucking and biting a dark mark over the thrum of your pulse. Soft noises rain down from your lips like the evening drizzle. Nash slides his hand up your back until it's settled at your nape, fingers dragging through the fall of your hair, and then he's _pulling_ , yanking your head back to strain under the guise of vulnerable exposure.

“Nash, _please_ ,” you whisper, eyes closed, and lips kiss-bruised, craving more.

“You have no idea what I want to do to you,” Nash rasps, his teeth catching on your earlobe.

“Then show me. I need you.” It leaves your mouth so naturally, like you've been meaning to fit it into casual conversation. The way it makes you feel, however, is a different story.

Nash chuckles, a low resonance in the dark of his throat. “Oh, baby, you don't have a clue what you need.” His calloused fingers circle your wrist, thumb digging in against bone and soft tissue as he drags you down the alley.

Once you reach the sidewalk, you see a car parked across the street and look at Nash briefly. “Don't tell me that–” you begin, but you already know that the car is his so you sigh and say: “Why do you have to be so obnoxiously ostentatious?”

“You can't expect me to travel all this way and pass up the opportunity to rent a car with 1,001 horsepower. Cars aren't like fucking, where it's good fast and slow. I like my cars like I like my weapons: swift, good-looking, and dangerous.”

“Why am I going home with you again?”

“Because you're as fucked as I am, baby,” Nash slings his arm around your shoulder and guides you across the street.

The ride back to his place is faster than you're comfortable with but it lends you enough adrenaline to make it up to the penthouse floor Nash is staying in. It's a good thing, too, because, with the way Nash kept running his hand up your thigh in the car, you don't think your legs would be capable of working on their own.

The penthouse has a breathtaking view of the city, but Nash doesn't give it a chance to filch your oxygen because he's pressing you up against the wall closest to the entrance and stealing the breath out of your lungs with a hungry kiss that borders on violent.

“You're so fucking gorgeous,” Nash tells you, slightly breathless. “It makes me want to fuck you up. Cover you in bruises and mark up your pretty skin.” He bites down on your bottom lip, hard enough to pull a half-choked sob up your throat. “Will you let me do what I want, baby? Will you let me hurt you and heal you, pull you apart and put you back together again?”

“Yes, anything,” you answer, chest heaving and fingers sliding through the soft mess of his hair. “Anything, as long as I get to feel you.”

Nash strips you down to near-bare skin in record time. The only piece of fabric left on your body is a pair of panties, tight on your hips and embarrassingly damp in their center. Nash takes a moment to look you over, the hunger of a lion written across his face in the name of desire. He tugs his shirt over his head and shucks his jeans, exposing spills of dark ink that overflow into your head and swim through your bloodstream. It makes your head messy, leaves you feeling fragile and bloodless. It feels so good that hurts, it hurts so much that you think it's enough to land you in the hospital or scatter your name among tomorrow's newspaper tidings.

But the demons inside your head aren't living for rationality, and when a voice from within you says: _you can't pray this kind of pain away_ , you know you're in too deep to resurface before the sun cries morning.

Nash crowds you up against the couch in the center of the room, his hands holding your face as he licks into your mouth. Something cool brushes against your leg and before you can make sense of it, Nash is laying the fabric over your shoulders. “Put that on,” he says, his mouth moving against your lips, close enough that you're left to inhale each other's breath.

You slide your arms into the sleeves of the leather jacket he wore yesterday. It's too broad in the shoulders and the sleeves go down far enough to cover your hands, but it feels good against your naked skin. And if Nash's expression is anything to go by, it must look as good on you as it feels.

“Fuck,” Nash breathes. He braces his strong hands on your hips and tugs you flush against his body. “You're gonna make me come just by looking at you.”

The compliment goes straight to the low of your belly and fizzles out somewhere between your knees. You whimper and shudder, and you're only partially aware that Nash is leading you across the room, his hands a guide among the bruises he's mapping out along the angles of your hips.

“Is it too late to talk about moving too fast?”

Nash laughs and spins you around, and your next breath gets lodged in your throat because the only thing that's keeping you from spilling out into the night are the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the wall. Nash kicks apart your feet before he drops to his knees behind you, and you're trying to take in the way the city looks from this high up while he splays his palm over your ass. Nash pulls his hand back but the lack of contact is brief. A light smack yanks you out of your reverie, which is immediately followed by another on the opposite cheek. The noise that leaves your mouth is so choral that it sounds like unspoken praise. It makes heat flood your body, breaking out across your skin like a rash.

“Jesus Christ, I can smell how wet you are from here,” Nash says, and while it's humiliating in every sense of the word, it heightens your arousal.

Nash hooks his fingers around the waistband of your panties and draws them down your legs. “I want you to put your hands on the glass and stick out your ass. After that, I don't want you to move again until I tell you to. Do you understand?”

You heed the command without protest but there's something so hermetic about the world you're in when Nash is by your side. The chemistry between you is anything but chemically calm, yet, you're like two atoms held together by chemical bonds. So it's only natural that you use the magnetism of Nash's words and his compelling gaze to your advantage. Your relationship was founded on the push and pull of mesmerism, so you momentarily isolate subservience and assimilate rebellion.

“I don't understand why you're not fucking me,” you tell him, tone playful but heated.

“Ooh, babygirl's got a tongue.” Nash chuckles and spreads you open with his thumbs, just long enough to spit onto your entrance. “I like it,” he adds. “I won't put up with it, but I like it.” You whine and push your hips back, but Nash is quick to spank you for it, this time hard enough to ache. “Be a good girl and I'll give you what you want.”

You flex your fingers against the window, leaving fingerprints on the glass. Nash returns his hands to your hips and tugs you back just enough that your hands shift and the panties catching around your calves cut into your skin. You gasp and the heat of your breath is visible on the window as Nash drags the flat of his tongue over your aching cunt. You shudder and the shake of it spreads to a pleasant stain that warms your thighs. “You taste so fucking good,” Nash praises, pushing one of his long digits into the gripping heat of your body.

“Oh,” you breathe, pressing your forehead against the glass to cool the fever licking your skin. You can't help but writhe and moan pitifully, but it only spurs Nash on, and it isn't until he's three fingers deep that he's satisfied. He fucks into you, hard and fast, twisting his wrist to create delicious friction that reaches down to your soul and rends a scream out of your core. A wet, syrupy sound meets your ears and it leaves you feeling embarrassed; it's humiliating, the audible proof of how much you're enjoying this. Of course, Nash, who is clearly savoring every second of your suffering, is laughing quietly behind you, each expression of amusement sounding insufferably fucking _smug_.

Nash removes his fingers, tortuously slow, and that filthy wet sound has your toes curling against the plush carpet. Briefly, your panties dig deeper into your skin, but then the fabric is gone entirely. It's freeing for reasons that go well beyond physical restraint. It makes you think about other types of restraints, ropes and chains and handcuffs, and the moan that slips past your lips is so sinful that you know you're damned.

Nash spins you around and the leather of his jacket catches against the window as he lifts your leg over his shoulder. The position spreads you open, puts you on display in front of his heat-glazed stare, and surrenders you to his ravenous appetite. Nash slides his tongue over the bottom line of his mouth in an obscene prelude to what he's about to do. “You're doing so good, baby. You're loving this, aren't you?” Nash needlessly presents the fingers that were moving inside of you only moments ago and makes a show of licking the salt and the heat of your arousal from his hand.

“Nash,” you whine, reaching out to tangle your fingers in his hair. You think better of it, hand hovering above his head, and ask, “Can I touch you?”

“Will it make you feel better?” Nash slides his fingers up your calf and his touch is so teasing, so gentle, that it drives you to just this side of insane.

You bite your lip and nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

“Go for it then,” Nash says, cocky and overconfident.

You slide your fingers through his hair and tug at his blond strands in a gesture innocent enough to pass as a natural circumstance of sheer recklessness. Nash doesn't seem convinced, however, because he digs bruises into your hip as he ducks his head to suck your clit between his spit-slick lips.

Your body jerks almost violently, a responsive spasm to the electricity flooding through your veins as Nash puts you on center stage. If sex is a skill, then Nash has mastered the art of eating pussy. It's the way he works his tongue over you, _into_ you, like your body's a canvas and he's painting you in the deepest shades of his dirtiest affections. It makes you feel like the glass at your back has dissolved into sand and you're falling toward the pavement below, like a sparrow trying to fly with broken wings.

The sound of your arousal on his lips is a drug, and Nash is just as hooked. He's losing his religion, drinking you down like the finest of wines. And when he looks up at you, all messy hair and half-lidded eyes, you feel like you've just overdosed. You shutter your gaze and let your head fall back against the window. You feel like you're dancing with the demons that are trying to take you to your grave, like you're holding hands with Mary Jane beneath the purple rain.

He's strangling you like an addiction.

You twist your fingers in his hair and Nash flicks the tip of his tongue over your clit before removing your leg from his shoulder. Your foot meets the floor as blood rushes down the appendage, your toes tingling at the sudden surge of circulation. He curls his fingers around the wilted edges of his jacket and pulls himself upright, kissing you with the taste of your arousal thick on his tongue. You can feel that you're dripping with need, and you'd probably be flustered if not for the haze of longing that's clouding your mind.

“Fuck,” Nash growls against your mouth. “You're such a desperate little thing, aren't you?” He fists his hand in your hair and bodily spins you around. He pushes you firmly up against the glass, your breath hitching as your bare chest presses flush against the cold surface. “Do you want me to fuck you? Is that what you need?”

“You know what I need,” you tell him, turning your head to press your cheek against the intercessor of night.

“And I need to hear you say it, babydoll. Let me take care of you.” Nash shifts and you can hear the slide of fabric and the catch of friction. Then he fits his hand between your thighs and slicks his fingers on your glistening heat. You feel his knuckles brush the curve of your backside and you whine, high and breathless, at the knowledge that he's stroking over himself, getting himself wet with your arousal.

“I need you to fuck me, _please_ , Nash,” you beg, trying to keep your voice as steady as possible.

“That's my good girl,” he commends, pushing the head of his cock inside of you, wet and easy. “Fuck, baby. You're so fucking beautiful.” Nash utilizes the hand in your hair and forces you to look at your reflection in the glass, a dark and indistinct impression on the night sky. “Makes me want to fuck your face.”

You part your lips to form some kind of response but it's impossible to string together more than a muffled cry, like your ability to speak was stolen from you when Nash slid his sizable cock into your slippery cunt.

Nash fucks up into you like there's a glass ceiling to break. He fucks into you hard and fast, his hips undulating and body shifting in all the right angles. It shatters your mental acuity, twists certain physical conditions into uncertainty; it has your mind playing like a film reel, arousing criticism from a purely subjective experience. It's like a bead of blood on a cotton candy cruise, the stem of a cherry, the pearl on a crown—it objectifies a material part of your brain, lances through your heart in a pattern of pain, only to circle back to strengthen the framework of your sexual prowess in a tribute to your femininity.

“I want you to come for me, baby. I want you to fall apart on my cock so I can drag your pretty little ass over to my bed and watch you ride me.” Nash wraps his arm around your waist and slides the flat of his palm down your belly until his fingers are ghosting over your clit. “Can you do that for me, kitten?”

“Nash,” you whisper, shaking. “You're gonna kill me.”

Nash chuckles and removes his hand from your hair. “Don't die on me yet, pretty baby. Here, drape your leg over my arm.” He gently prods the back of your right thigh with his knee and your heart flutters as you shift to comply with the demand. Nash hooks his arm around the bend of your knee and holds you open as he falls back into his previous rhythm, heart fanned to flames by the cadence of his rough ministrations.

“ _Fffuck_ ,” you drawl, voice straining into a weak sob.

“That's the idea, babydoll,” Nash teases. “I want you to come like this for me. Spread open high above the city, my fingers on your clit, cock filling you up.”

Nash applies more pressure to your clit, and then you're capitulating to his salacious supplication with a strangled moan. Your body burns with pleasure, and where there's delicious friction you grind back against Nash's cock like you never want to know what it's like to be separated from him.

A spark of magnanimity seems to move through Nash and he turns you around with a surprisingly gentle quality. He kisses you softly, his hands framed around your face, thumbs caressing your cheeks. It's sweet and soft and soothing, but when he draws back, his lust-dark eyes are lit with a spark of instability and amusement. “You're so thoroughly fucked,” he says, voice husky and warm like the lurid glow of fire. He hoists you over his shoulder despite your protests and carries you into his bedroom, chuckling the entire way.

He drops you down on the bed but he's quick to join you, and that's when you actually _see_ his cock, all wet and swollen and flushed. You don't want to stare but you can't help it; his cock is so fucking big from your current vantage point. It's the kind of big that's intimidating up close, that makes you wonder how he so easily slid into you. It imbues you with a strange sense of pride, and you know that Nash is reveling in the feeling with you because you're doing great things for his ego right now.

“Believe it or not, I was once told I have the kind of cock that's made for porn,” Nash tells you, smiling in a way that rests on the verge of laughter.

“That's, so incredibly ludicrous that it's almost sensible.”

Nash does laugh then, while he slides back on the bed to make room for your knees. “If you stick around for breakfast, I'll tell you the story.” He drops his hand into his lap and strokes his cock without a single trace of shame. “Right now, I want you to get your ass over here.”

You stand up on shaky legs just long enough to reposition yourself. You try not to flinch when the slick between your thighs makes an audible sound as you straddle Nash's lap, hands on his shoulders to keep yourself balanced.

“That's it,” Nash says, leaning forward just enough to nip at the subtle protrusion of your collarbone. “You're being such an angel for me.” Nash slips an arm beneath your borrowed jacket and braces a hand at the base of your spine. “Makes me want to ruin you.” He kisses the valley of your breasts and closes his hand around the base of his cock. “Spread yourself open, baby. I want you to take me as deep as you can. You drive me fucking crazy. It's like your body was made for me...you fit me like a fucking glove. I can honestly say, I've never had it quite as good as I have with you.”

You swallow around the lump that's formed in your throat as you do what you're told, thighs trembling through the motion. “You probably say that to all the girls.”

Nash applies pressure to the small of your back and the point of contact causes you to lock eyes. “I swear on—fuck, I don't really have a frame of reference here, but I don't usually bother with flattery. I don't need to.”

You bite your lip and bask in the information, because whether he's stringing you along or pulling your wires in the name of exploitation, it feels nice, grounds you in the moment. You dig your fingernails into his shoulders as you feel the tip of his cock breach you. Your breath catches in your throat and you close your eyes, whimpering as you lower yourself inch by delicious inch. It's somehow different from before, more intimate, more _detailed_. You can feel his cock moving inside of you, dragging along the velveteen softness of your inner walls.

A plaintive cry cuts through the breath trapped in your throat as you close the gap, like how the final stitch closing an open wound indicates completion. You're aroused to a fever pitch, physiologically and psychologically, so slick that the slightest movement plays like an open-mouthed kiss. Yet, there's an entire inch left of Nash's cock that you can't accommodate and it's so overwhelmingly _good_ that it makes you feel dizzy and punch-drunk.

“You okay, ____?” Nash asks, hand shifting from the dip at the base of your spine to support the middle of your back. “Talk to me, babygirl.”

“It's huge,” you say, almost laughing. “It's ridiculous! No one needs a c-cock this big–”

Nash's mouth curves into that lopsided smile that drives you mad. “But you fucking love it, don't you?” He cants his hips and a sharp gasp hisses between your teeth. “Fuck, baby. I can feel how much you love it. You're practically soaking my lap.”

“Don't—you can't just...say stuff like that,” you mumble, blushing. You drag your fingernails down over his scapulae and lift your hips just enough to ease the thrumming ache pulsing through your clit. You sink down again and whimper with a chorus of groans that pour past Nash's parted lips like unvoiced encouragement.

“Why? Why shouldn't I tell you how you feel when it's the greatest fucking thing I've ever felt?” Nash fucks into you as if he's punctuating his point. “You're dripping wet, so hot I feel like I could _melt_ ,” he groans and shifts his hand to fondle the weight of your breast in his palm. “I feel like I'm getting head from your cunt for how tight you are. It's so fucking good that I could probably shoot my load in you just like this.”

“That's disgusting,” you tell him, rolling your hips and wanting to, but not entirely hating the way your body betrays you.

“The best kind of sex is dirty sex,” Nash says, grinding upwards.

And you don't know if it's due to the simple fact that you're hypertensive from already coming, or the way Nash's voice drops an entire octave when you clench around his cock, but you feel like you're being burned down to the ground.

“Fuck, I haven't been this horny since high school,” Nash tells you, tongue flicking out to lick at the center of your lips. “Here I've been praising you all night but I'm starting to think that I'm on the receiving end of your worst intentions.”

“Do you always— _oh fuck_ —talk this much during sex?” you ask him. Your knuckles turn white as you undulate your hips, measured and rhythmic, and a shiver sails down the turbulent shores of your naked spine.

A playfully malicious grin settles over Nash's mouth and a glint of something virulent saturates the heat overtaking his gaze. “Do you always try to deny what you so desperately want when you're having sex?” Nash amplifies his response with a thrust so hard that it punches the breath out of your lungs, and the rate of your breathing shifts into breathless little shudders.

You rake your nails down his back and cling to him like he's the only thing keeping you battened down for the oncoming storm. “Please,” you say helplessly, voice spread paper-thin, body oversensitive and wanton like some kind of concupiscent art.

“What do you need from me? You have the reins, princess. I'm just along for the ride.” Nash sweeps his thumb over a turgid nipple before dragging the edge of his fingernail over the straining peak. “Or is it that it's not enough for you?” Nash leans forward just enough to lick a stripe up your neck, tongue lapping at where your sweat had dried. “Do you need to be commanded? Controlled? Is this not enough to satisfy your filthy appetite?”

“Please, I don't— _fuck_ —I don't know,” you snap, eyes going glassy with sudden tears of frustration. “I've never felt like this before.”

Nash lifts his hips just enough to maneuver your bodies, and somehow, he keeps himself lodged inside of you. He cages you between his arms and rolls his hips like he's one with the sea and your body lies stretched out beneath the horizon. “What if I claimed you? Made you mine?” Nash teases your bottom lip with his thumb. “Would it be enough for you then?”

You stare at him, your mind frozen at the crossroads between want and confusion. Tears spill from the corners of your eyes, catching on the outermost edges of your lashes when you blink. “What?” you rasp, and you're surprised at how wrecked you sound.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Nash marvels. “You're even prettier when you cry.” He draws his thumb away from your mouth and ghosts his fingers over your pulse point. “You're going to haunt my desires. I'm going to be dreaming about you for a long fucking time.” He exhales a weighty breath and starts fucking you in earnest. “I can't help but wonder what you'd look like with a gun held between your lips and a knife against your throat.”

A whimper vibrates up your throat but it's not enough volume, not enough expression to be satisfied—so your hands fly up to Nash's muscled arms and a high-pitched shout splits the night. Every tendon in your body draws tight before imminent release carries you out to the sky, listless and far-gone.

Nash emits a stream of curses that plays like a litany, a filthy, licentious prayer that beckons to the darkness. He fucks you to tears as you ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm, and when he withdraws from your body to paint your stomach in glossy, pearly ribbons, you willfully fall apart.

It's not unlike surrendering to the damned in dark times. There's poison in your veins and blood on your lips, making it hard to tell which side of the fence you're standing on. A metaphoric bomb ticking underneath the bridge counts down all the promises you can't keep without regret. As well as, there are some things you know can't come to fruition without sacrifice, and you'd be committing perjury of the highest degree if you said you wouldn't go to hell and back for this man.

Nash breathes out against the sweat cooling on your skin, his arms visibly shaking as he rolls himself over to lie beside you. You distantly wonder if this is what it feels like when atoms collide. The flash of a neon light creates a reflective sheen that catches on the array of windows lining the wall. It draws your attention away from your thoughts and over to the sudden softness of Nash's face. He looks as fucked-out as you feel, bare-faced, and inscrutable; stripped down to the starkest parts of his soul and laid bare for only your eyes to see.

You reach out and find his hand, and he's quick to lace your fingers together. You search his gaze, try to parse through the obtrusive thoughts that make you feel weaker than you've ever felt before. He smiles at you, genuine and lax despite the unspoken threat that eclipses his eyes.

“I don't think I can let you go,” he says, as if this knowledge is conflicting with every other emotion that governs his being.

And while you're not entirely sure what that means, you've never been so sure of anything when you look him in the eye and say: “Then don't.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you liked this, please leave me kudos or drop a comment so I know what you guys like! It helps me decide what kind of content to write in the future. <3


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